JULY 4, 1863
Never judge a defeat you’ve yet to experience.
PEACE BLANKETS THIS broken land like fog thick on the river. No one stirs. No one talks. But the birds sing. It’s been a while since they’ve serenaded us. A breeze brings some relief. We need it. I sense a glimmer of something I’d nearly forgotten. Through the anger, pain, killing, madness, and betrayal, somehow I feel hope for the first time in weeks. It’s a strange sensation.
At 8:00 a.m. July 4th, a flag of truce is carried from our lines to the enemy. Men shake their heads and shout, “Say it ain’t so, we ain’t gonna surrender. Hell no!” Sarge quiets them down. He’s glad it’s happening. At least his men will live and maybe go home.
The 3rd Louisiana men take it badly. They curse, break their muskets against trees, and scatter their ammunition. I expect they’ll start ripping their jackets to pieces any second. Instead, they rip up their flags giving each man a small square as a souvenir. They refuse the Yanks the satisfaction of capturing their banners as war trophies. Let them waste themselves on anger.
“I might just make it out of here alive yet.” Things quiet down, and I sit to rest my eyelids.
J.A. punches my shoulder. “You made it, you bucket-headed out-loud-talkin’ fool. We must be livin’ right to see this day.”
“Ain’t no holy souls in this damn army except on the bottom of your boots.” I grumble at being rousted from a daydream about Susannah. Dreaming is the only way I get to be with her now. I roll over to get it back, but it’s not to be had.
J.A. punches me again. “Get up. It’s ten o’clock. They’re callin’ us to stack our muskets. Maybe the Yanks’ll give us food. I swear my guts are stuck to my backbone.”
J.A. is the best friend a man could have in siege. Next to Poole back home, he’s the best I’ve ever had. Proverbs says there’s a friend who sticks closer than a brother. Poole is that. J. A., too.
We straighten our ragged uniforms and leave the rifle pit to see rows of blue lines patiently waiting. I’m ready—ready to get this over and for the Lord to point me in the next right direction. I hope it ain’t to a prison camp.
The 27th Louisiana Volunteer Infantry Regiment files out of the trenches in good order. We stack our rifles and march to the city. I sneak my pistol to a lieutenant when I hear officers can keep their side arms after the surrender.
Some men wish we’d fought to the last man. Some men are dejected, some cry, some curse, and some break into fights. Some men blame Pemberton. “Damn Yank sympathizer planned this from the beginnin’.” I don’t believe that for a minute. Some blame Richmond for not sending supplies. But all blame Johnston for not coming to our rescue. There are as many reasons as we can dream up.
Folks hang their heads when we march into town. To our surprise, the Yanks are respectful, even encouraging to our beaten army. There’s no laughing or belittling, no poking or goading, no degrading sarcasm from the Yanks—only words from seasoned men who know what we suffered these past forty-seven days and why. One regiment sends up a resounding cheer for the brave lads who defended the Gibraltar of the South.
All along the way into town Yanks smile, salute, and yell. “You gave us hell, Johnny Reb.”
“Wasn’t for lack of guts you men surrendered. Heck, no. It was for lack of beans. That’s all.”
“Now there goes a fightin’ man’s army right there.”
J.A. whispers, munching a piece of fresh-baked bread. “Just knowed they’d be itching to kill us all.”
They lost many friends and brothers. But they know we lost ours too. Inward pain is as horrible as the smell and sights outside our trenches after the attacks. We’re just human beings who survived a great storm together. That’s how they welcome us out of the trenches—as human beings. Gray or blue, it doesn’t matter anymore. We have to take care of each other.
Union General Logan leads the band playing “Yankee Doodle,” that old song from the first revolution. Soldiers step out of line to share bread and cooked beef from their haversacks. Cups of cool water are given every man. Some of our men collapse from fatigue, hunger, and despair. It’s a sorrowful time, but we’re glad it’s over.
I whisper a Psalm, “I will extol thee O Lord for thou hast lifted me up and hast not made my foes rejoice over me. Say that to thank God for not only keepin’ you alive but puttin’ you in the hands of these honorable men.”
J.A. and Isham repeat the words.
Hog Fart asks, “What does extol mean?”
I just pat him on the shoulder. He winces a bit.
A reverend preaches, “For his anger endureth but a moment, and in his favor is life. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” I’ve been looking for this morning a very long time.
We reach town at 2:00 p.m., many in better spirits. I’m not sure how I’ll feel when I see the U.S. flag above the courthouse. I stretch to see it waving proudly, flapping majestically in the breeze that rises from the great river. Love for my state brings truth to my soul. I’m glad it’s there. It was the first flag over that courthouse, and I pray it will be the last. My heart fills with hopeful pride at the sight. It brings a bit of peace to my soul.
We march with our tails dragging, as they say, but perk up when a loud commotion erupts where merchants keep shop. J.A. yells, “Are them blue bastards pillagin’ civilian property?”
We bristle, and the Yank guards draw closer. A captain rides up. “You men now can know the reason you had to surrender. Understand what’s happening. General Grant gave strict orders—no civilians or their property is to be harmed. We follow that order to the letter, but some of your merchants, shopkeepers, and speculators squirreled away enough food and supplies to carry you men another month. They were getting rich on the black market. I’m sorry, men. You gave us hell. But cheer up. When my boys clean those buzzards out, you’ll have a helluva party tonight.”
Men and women fat and well-dressed are thrown out of their houses and shops in front of the very men who protected their evil doings. They won’t look at us. They’re too ashamed. They should be. Men died because of lack of food almost within sight of their shops and homes.
I feel for the knife Pa made me. “Damn them. I could kill them all.”
J.A. grabs my arm. “They’ll get theirs soon enough.”
“Already are.”
The Yanks pile everything on wagons and follow us down the street. We stop to rest across from the Rock House where General Pemberton is headquartered. The Yanks driving the wagons distribute foods ready to eat. It stings my soul that our own people thought so little of us.
It’s not simple wrongs that make a man detest his own people. It’s human greed that causes my anger toward those who’d rather make a dollar watching men starve.
I look up at the Yankee flag again. It wasn’t that long ago I honored it. Susannah, Old Bart, and all their people have been treated like animals for too long. I see how the Yanks treat us now and what this war has come to mean.
I count from the top to the twentieth star on the flag. “It’s still there, right where I left it.”
I look at my ragged clothes, my thin body, and my friends who sit with me. The world suddenly looks different. I won’t ever be the same again because today the rebel flag loses any meaning it ever had for me.
“I’ve been fooled. The state’s rights cause was nothin’ more than a cover up for keepin’ slaves chained and the rich gettin’ richer. Damn ’em, makin’ out like the Yankees are devils sent down here to deprive us of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness when slaveowners been doin’ that to Negroes for years. Just because a white man makes a Negro lower than a dog to keep himself from bein’ the lowest rung on the ladder don’t mean I buy that horseshit.” I want to stand up and shout. I start to get up. “I’m never gonna be the same, and I’m sure as hell done with this army.”
J.A. punches me. “Shut up and stay down, Lummy. Here they come, and you’ll damn well go wherever the hell they tell you.”
He doesn’t understand that’s exactly what I mean. “I may have been a fool, J.A., but I ain’t no fool’s fool.”
J.A. puts his hand over my mouth and points to the road. A group of Yankee officers stop at the Rock House. “That’d be Grant.” They’re all gussied up except a bearded one in a plain blue coat with a half-smoked cigar in his mouth.
I elbow him. “He’s shorter than I imagined.”
Grant leads the way up the steps first to extend his hand of friendship to General Pemberton. Mr. Wiley told me about Grant and Pemberton fighting in the Mexican War together. If they were friends back then, you can’t tell it by the way General Pemberton receives him. Our general and his staff appear to be in a bad mood. I guess I would be, too. Pemberton barely speaks to Grant and doesn’t even offer the man a seat. When Grant asks for a glass of water, he’s told where he can find it himself.
“Suck egg mule, look at that,” J.A. whispers.
I shield my eyes. “I don’t care that we did get whooped. Ain’t no call for Pemberton to be a horse’s ass about it.”
J.A. swats his hand at Pemberton. “Don’t speak well of southern hospitality, now does it? My momma sure taught me better’n that. Guess ole Pemberton missed that lesson.”
Grant salutes Pemberton and walks down the steps shaking his head. He starts for his horse, but turns abruptly and beelines toward us under a shade tree. We’re a beaten mob, ragged, downcast, grieving, and looking the part. We’re eating food his soldiers gave us.
Grant removes his hat and wipes the sweat from his forehead. “You men doing better, gettin’ fed? My men best be treatin’ you good, or I’ll give them a worse ass whuppin’ than you gave them. You men put up a helluva fight, and you have no reason to be ashamed. It’s time you get on with your lives, ’cause you got lots of good days left to live.” He studies us for a minute.
“Sure wish I’d had you boys in my army. We’d taken Vicksburg in the first assault.” Grant turns for his horse but stops. “But don’t tell anybody I said that.”
We laugh. J.A. stares at the general who defeated our army until he mounts his horse and rides away. “Maybe we should’ve been marchin’ for him instead of Pemberton waitin’ on that coward Johnston, yellow as a crook neck squash and just as soft when cooked.”
Hog Fart chimes in. “I hope President Davis cooks Johnston’s ass up real nice when he reports to Richmond. That bastard could’ve saved us from prison camp if he’d done his duty.”
I nod in agreement. But what does it matter now?
Lying back against a hitching post, I just can’t get these Yanks out of my mind. Why are they so kind? Do they truly believe the Union is worth dying for? Do they believe Negroes like my Susannah should be free? They seem sincere. They act like they believe what they say. There was always something not quite right about our cause. I can’t give much thought to that now. I’m more concerned about where the Yanks will send us. Grant rides to the river landing to congratulate Admiral Porter.
Isham leans up. “Damn, there’s sixty steamers docked in front of the Prentiss House Hotel.”
Hog Fart sobs. “They gonna take us to a prison camp, ain’t they?”
I put my arm around him. “I don’t know. We’ll just take what we get. Don’t worry, we’ll stick together.” We’ve all heard horror stories about those camps, on both sides.
What to do? Where to go? What’s the right choice? Will I have a choice? Will they parole us or imprison us? What’s the best path if we’re set free? Too many questions with no answers.
I could go live and work with Ben and Mr. Gilmore, or I could go home to help Ma in Choctaw County. I need to settle my soul down. I’m all jittery inside. This war brings too many uncertainties. I calm myself like the Catholic priest taught me.
Sarge comes by. “Good news, boys. Grant’s gonna parole all men willin’ to take the oath not to take up arms against the Union. At least, not ’til we get exchanged.”
Nobody cheers.
It’s hard to know what to do when I get set free. I know what we’re expected to do. Go to Enterprise, Mississippi, wait to be exchanged, and be ready when the 27th Louisiana is reassembled to go back to war. I ain’t going down that road. Right now, I just want to run off in all directions at once. I need to think about what I’m going to do—and why.
At the end of the day, General Grant lets us go back into our camps to rest before we get our parole papers. Once back in camp, we’re fed again, doctored, and given tents to sleep in. They want us healthy enough to march in a couple of days. Formal paroling of prisoners starts July 7th. The march to Enterprise begins on the 11th.
It’s hard to believe that we can mill around with the Yanks, playing cards and dominoes. We play the stick and ball game again. It’s good to have some fun.
One Yank guard tries to joke, “A long ways from eating mule meat, huh, men?”
Hog Fart blurts out, “Better’n this beefsteak.” We throw clods at him as he laughs with his mouth full of good Yankee beef.
The Yank shakes his head. “Guess a hungry man can get used to anything.”
Two Wisconsin men bring by their eagle mascot, Old Abe, and congratulate our bravery.
J.A. rubs the massive bird’s back feathers. “Meanin’ no harm, but we thought this bird was a buzzard. We seen enough of them bone pickers for a lifetime.”
The Yanks laugh, and we rub the bird’s back feathers.
A Yank corporal hangs his head. “Sorry about ole Douglas. He was a sight to behold, a magnificent beast. I thought so much of him I got a souvenir bone, so I’ll never forget his bellowing at night.” The Yank holds up the piece of bone. “I do believe this piece probably came from a mule. There’s been enough of these souvenir bones sold to make up a herd of camels.”
The Yanks issue five days’ rations, and we gorge on bacon, hominy, peas, bread, salt, and real coffee with sugar. They give us candles for light and soap to wash off the unbearable stink of the siege. I scrub thirty minutes trying to clean off what can’t be purified by soap and water. I scrub until my skin turns red. The more it stings, the harder I rub.
A middle-aged Yank guard says in a fatherly way, “Son, no amount of rubbin’ will peel off that pain. Just give it to the Lord. He’ll take it away. Let Him clean your heart so you can be the man you used to be. I can’t imagine the things you men saw and had to do, but the Lord forgives. And know this, the Lord forgets.” Good words that bring a tear.
Early evening, we fall exhausted into our tents with full bellies and better spirits. I can’t sleep though. My soul is yet unsettled. Stars stare at me like eyes in the darkness—Granny Thankful and Pa, Amariah and Amanda, Lucille and Mr. Wiley, Granville, and Susannah—waiting for my decision, my choice, my next step. I don’t know what to do. My life never has run in a straight line. Why must I always walk upstream against the current? My choices are made for me. And I know the One who makes them.
Today I found my independence. I know what to do. Today, we laid our muskets to rest from a battle we didn’t lose. Today, I surrendered more than my musket. I surrendered to set captives free. I surrendered the old way that refuses others the right to be who God created them to be. I surrendered all that holds my soul back from living the convictions God put in my heart. But tonight, I surrender me.
I’ll soon take the oath to never take up arms against the Union again. Some will pledge truthfully. Some will lie. I can’t do that. I’ll keep my word. They’ll call me a turncoat, traitor, worse than a Yankee. But there are things in this universe that need to be set aright. And what I’ve given myself to this since I left Winn Parish ain’t it. I heard it said, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”
I look up at the stars. “I won’t be fooled again. Now I know what to do.”
It’s dark and quiet this 4th of July night. No cannon blasts, no whistle of minie balls, no sound of good men struck down. I never knew silence could sound so good. I close my eyes.
Peace is good, if only for a little while.